


Standing in the Shadows

by wicked_writings



Category: Slipknot
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Sex EVERYWHERE, Slut!Joey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_writings/pseuds/wicked_writings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musings of a bewildered sampler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing in the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of FICTION. As far as I am aware, this never happened (except in my dirty little mind, and you don't want to go there). I have no association with any of the people featured in this made-up story and I make no money from its publication. And yes, I am very ashamed.

The big, old house is subdued and quiet, but I know better.  
I know they are all in here somewhere, doing whatever it is they are doing. The rooms in here are deceptive, secreting away people and things like it will never give them back.

It's just a matter of wandering the winding corridors until I happen upon the rest of them. There are nine of us, but each is so different and unlike the others that only by appreciating their individual character and personality can we understand them.

It is by taking this in mind that I start walking. I let the screen door slam behind me, the squeak of its hinges ripping through the deserted kitchen.  
But no one cares, because no one hears.

My boots are heavy on the old floorboards, but like the slamming of the door, I don't care. This band lives to make noise, and it doesn't matter what kind.

At first glance, the living room appears to be empty. I dismiss it almost immediately, but a slight movement near one of the bay windows on the far side of the room catches my eye. It is dark down there, but I make out Sid, huddled on the floor over his turntables.

He can’t hear because of the earphones over his head, but he is so deep in concentration I don't think he would notice if I had entered the room by blasting a hole in the wall.

I'll leave him in peace.

It is dark in the corridor, and I slow my pace to ensure I don't trip over any mess and break my neck. Tidiness is next to godliness, and we aren't godly.

I can hear movement above, so I make for the stairs. I am slightly wary of the stairs – they are, of course, as old as the rest of the house and therefore liable to fall apart at any given time. To step lightly is to ensure you can complete the journey alive.

They creak under my footsteps, but I stay close to the rail where the boards are stronger.

I am nearly at the top step when I hear them.  
It is indistinct at first, but when I take refuge on the landing and concentrate I become aware of who it is.

It is Joey of course; the soft cries and moans giving it away. Who is with him, pleasuring him like that, I don't know. The door is open. It is a measure of how open and aware this band is, that two members can be together like this and not need to hide any so-called shame.

Of course, it helps that we have all been with Joey. It is nothing new. And now, recording this album in the middle of nowhere, a house to ourselves, it appears we are all appreciating him in the way that has become normal for us.

Instead of peering around the frame, I stand outside and try to guess who it is. It isn't Sid of course. That leave 6 members. 6 guys, all different.

I know it isn't Paul. If it was, the screams would be echoing around the house accompanied by the frantic pounding of the headboard against the wall. He is incapable of being slow and gentle with Joey.

I have never heard Joey complain.

It cannot be Jim.  
With the guitarist, Joey is always silent, and here, his pleasure is audible. I don't know why he never moans when he is with Jim, but I sometimes see faint tracks of tears. It is not pain – we are always too careful – but rather I think an expression of the ecstasy he feels. Jim always knows how and where to touch him.

It is an art I am yet to attain.

If it was Shawn, it would not be Joey I am hearing. Shawn is loud, always appreciative of how they come together.  
Joey likes it.

I have seen him encouraging lewd talk from our leader. Sometimes his words are soft, other times he is nearly shouting. It is a different Shawn – the one who goes home to a loving wife, 4 children and a house with a white picket fence would never talk like that.

Corey is an exhibitionist.  
A bedroom is far too tame for him. I have seen him bend Joey over in the middle of our crowded tour bus, even in the studio in front of an incredulous sound engineer.

For Corey, it is the thrill of being caught in a public place, or the sordidness of fucking in front of many people.

I cross him off my mental list.

Chris is the only one who is slightly uncomfortable with our promiscuous drummer. It is only when he is desperate (or drunk) that he will give in to his innermost desires and take Joey to bed. Here, where we are free to go home every night, I know he will not be requiring Joey's services.

An image of cross legged Sid, devoted to his turntables, comes to me and I must laugh. He and Joey are the two youngest; the hyperactive troublemakers of the group. Together, naked and sprawled over a bed, they spend more time fooling around wrestling and joking than they do having sex.

But when they do, it is always physical, more about reaching their climaxes and satisfying themselves than it is about the connection. That having been said, they have impressive stamina’s, capable of going for hours.

It amazes me.

I could not be more unlike Sid if I tried. When I am with Joey, I always put his pleasure above mine. I adore the look on his face when he orgasms – his lips, full and red, part slightly and I can never resist pressing my lips to his. His beautiful blue eyes are closed to me, his sweet cheeks flushed and his hair damp with sweat.

I am very fond of him, and he knows it.  
He likes to come to me for comfort when he is upset or down, and I am always willing to oblige, my arms wide open. I am always there for him. There will always be room for him in my heart.

There is only one person left. In a way, I did not need to eliminate the other members. Mick is the only person who can make Joey gasp like that. He can do things to Joey that the rest of us can never replicate.

He is in love with Joey.  
It is not hard to see. It is in his touch – those gentle brushes of fingers over skin, the tender way he holds Joey. His eyes see only one person, and they soften in a way I never thought possible of Mick.

I am not jealous.  
I adore Joey, and I love him, but in a way that means he will always have a friend in me. He is my brother. But I do not love him like Mick does, that much is certain.

I believe that Joey knows. I also believe that one day, when this band is buried in the dust of time and history, Joey and Mick will still be together.  
They will be the last vestige of our band, of Slipknot.

I know, that despite Joey's rampant bed-hopping, he only reveals his true self to one person. Mick is the recipient of an understanding and existential state that we will never know. Sometimes, I wonder if Mick finds the rest of us intrusive, imparting on something truly private, wanting his Joey to himself.

But I believe he knows we are only playthings.  
We use Joey to fulfil our restless desires, and then cast him free again. We care for him – he is never forced into anything – but we are only temporary.

Now, I peek around the frame.  
They are still now, laying together in post-coital bliss. Mick is so much larger, but he protects Joey. I know how much his size makes Joey feel safe.

It is only a quick glance, but I am intruding.  
They don't notice me, too wrapped up in each other to think of anything else.

And when I creep away, trying to be quiet on the creaky floorboards, I know they will not hear.


End file.
